Losing Ground
by Katia-chan
Summary: Many women have a hard time dealing with the birth of a child. But when the love becomes a competition, the lines and limits can become harder to see. Ren centric, dark themes.


Losing Ground

By Katia-chan

A/N: I've been working with this idea for a while, and this is the closest I've come to being satisfied with it. Trying to keep from falling into my pit of summer writers bloc, as best as I can at least.

I do need to put in a warning here that this is dealing with some implications that go along with postpartum depression and psychosis. I know this can be a really touchy subject with some people, so I thought I should warn ahead of time.

Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.

XXX

She hasn't slept in days.

It's been two weeks since the baby was born, and she can't remember the last time she truly slept. She spends her nights tossing, staring up at the shadows that collect on the ceiling and in the corners, watching as people she doesn't know quietly enter and leave the room. It's a vigil she has become very familiar with, and one she keeps now, with Akira sleeping deeply beside her. She wishes she were sleeping as well, since she is so exhausted she can feel it in her bones; a deep weary ache that just won't ease.

Akira has been worried. She can see it, whenever he looks at her, when he can bring himself to take his eyes from the child. His smile never fades, but his eyes cloud when he sees the dark circles beneath her eyes, and the look makes her want to scream. There is nothing wrong with her, and she can't bear for him to look at her as he does, with so much worry, and even fear. She won't hurt him by causing him more anxiety. She swore she would keep him healthy and happy, and it would be a sin on her part to fail him in that. So if he asks her if she needs anything, when what he means is a doctor, she comforts him and tells him that of course she doesn't. She's perfectly fine.

And she can't really tell that she's not.

In the darkness, she slides her hand over the blankets, and lays it over his. He doesn't stir, and she's relieved. He's been very sick all day, and was in need of rest. So she carefully removes her hand, afraid of waking him, and turns on her side, staring at the shapes that seem to dance in the corners.

That's when the baby begins to cry.

She stiffens, flooded with a wash of terror and fury as the thin cries seem to pierce her, and she knows they will wake Akira, and she can't stand for that. But, as she knew would happen, she feels him stirring beside her, the child bringing him out of his peaceful sleep. She roles over and, with cold but gentle fingers, softly strokes his hair, soothing him back to sleep as carefully as she can. He is weary enough that she manages it, before he ever comes fully awake, and she is grateful, with an intense relief that seems to take all of the strength from her limbs. But the child continues to wail, and her anger is not long in returning; one of the maids should be tending to it. But no one comes, and the crying continues, making her want to cover her ears, to ignore it. But, for Akira's sake, she knows she can't.

When she knows that no one is coming, she slips carefully from the bed, so as not to disturb him, and pads out of the room on silent feet, blindly following the sound of the crying to the little room just a few feet down the hall.

Slipping inside, she makes her way over to the cradle, staring down at its occupant. The little girl, wrapped in her blankets, is small and frail, and her cries are fretful. Ren watches in fixated fascination as the thin chest fills, rising and falling rapidly, and she thinks she can almost see the beating heart beneath the birdlike ribs. The baby does not stop crying when Ren bends over it, and her anger flares again, and she snatches it from the cradle, gripping the small bundle tightly.

"Hush!" she hisses in a whisper, nearly shaking it. "Don't you know the trouble you're causing? You'll wake the whole house!" Her words accomplish nothing, and at the violent motion, and the venomous fury in her voice, the child begins to cry louder, squirming in Ren's grip. And at that moment, she knows what has been keeping her from sleep; what makes the shadows dance, and what whispers to her in the night. She knows the cause of Akira's worry, and her own weariness, and she knows she can make it stop.

Her breath quickens, and she clutches the child to her chest, and she can see it, as plain as if it were happening; it wouldn't take much. She would only have to cover the baby's mouth, pinch her nose. . . She shivers, her breath coming in short panting gasps, imagining with a mix of desperation and revulsion the child in her arms struggling, and then slowly going still. . . it would be an accident, she could tell them that. . .

"Ren. . . what are you doing?"

Too wrapped, too intent, she had not heard him approach, and his voice seems to snap her from a trance. She looks down and sees that her hand is hovering mere inches from the baby's face, and it surprises her, but only a little. She thinks for one wild second that she still could do it, if she wanted. . . she still has time, but the gentleness, and the undertone of fear in his voice, seem to drain her resolve, and she lets her hand fall slowly, turning to face him, suddenly feeling exhausted and sick.

"He wouldn't stop crying. . . ," she whispers, her heart hammering in her throat. If he saw. . . if he knew what she had been about to do. . . but no. Relief washes over his face when he can finally see her clearly, and he smiles, gentle and happy.

"You're holding her," he murmurs softly, coming across the room to stand by her, quiet joy in his voice. He kisses her gently, and then very carefully takes the baby, who is still howling, from her arms, gently rocking it into sleepy silence as she stares at him, motionless. His eyes are fixed on the little face, and thee impulse rises again, to rip it from his hands, to fling it aside, dash it on the floor. But when he looks up at her, his lined face full of contented happiness, she reluctantly releases the thought, and lets a heavy emptiness settle in its place.

She almost wishes he had known what she was about to do. She wants him to see, to realize that she hates this child. She desperately wants him to understand that their child means nothing to her, even while it is the world to him.

But he won't.

He could never believe it of her; could never even entertain the thought that she didn't love this '_special_ child as he did. She could tell him, but, gentle man that he was, he would disbelieve, and he would hope that would be enough to change her mind. She knows that, so she says nothing as he finishes lulling the baby back to sleep, and lays it back in the cradle. He stands there for a long moment after, staring down at the pile of blankets, until she touches his arm very softly, keeping her voice carefully controlled.

"Please. . . come back to bed with me. It's late, and you should be resting."

He tears his eyes away from the tiny bundle, and his reluctance feels like a knife in her ribs. But she waits while he bends, adjusting the blankets, and then stands again, letting her guide him gently back to their room.

Once there, he is asleep almost immediately, but though he looks peaceful, his face is more lined, and pale; the hand that holds hers is too cold. She's fairly sure he'll wake with a fever. And even if it was caused by tonight's wanderings, his contented expression lets her know that he wouldn't mind, that he would find it a worthy sacrifice to have witnessed what he thought he had seen. And though she hates the lie more than anything else in the world, she has no choice but to let him go on believing in it. Because she loves him too much to tell him the truth, and he doesn't love her enough to let her.

She cries silently, so she will not wake him.

XXX

TTFN


End file.
